Stilinski, PI
by General San3
Summary: Film noir Teen Wolf AU. Untidy, hyperactive Private Detective Stiles Stilinski meets high-powered lawyer Lydia Martin when she comes to him for help solving a threat on her life. Along the rain-drenched, moonlit road, they'll meet a few old friends - and enemies. Stydia all the way! There will be 12 short chapters by the end, alternating between Stiles' and Lydia's perspectives.
1. Chapter 1

It was after closing time when she knocked on my door. Three precise knocks, and then she opened the door and strode in. My feet were on the desk, my mouth was full of hamburger, and I had just dripped mustard onto the front of my shirt.

She was in a neatly-tailored blue dress suit, standing primly on heels that pushed the boundaries of human endurance, with red hair curled neatly over her shoulders.

Strawberry blonde, I corrected myself, just before I leaned too far back on my chair and toppled into a pile on the floor.

"Detective Stilinski," she said, a note of impatience in her voice as she watched me struggle to extricate myself from my chair, "You seem otherwise occupied, but my business is really quite urgent."

"Oh - no," I gasped, levering myself to my feet and surreptitiously wiping the remains of my hamburger onto some papers strewn on the desk. "Not busy at all. I was waiting, in fact."

Her eyebrows rose and she gazed around the office. "Waiting?" She seemed to take in every detail, from the water-stained ceiling to the wall where I had outlined every case with pictures, facts, and string (red is unsolved, and there's lots of that). Her eyes returned to me, and she tilted her head slightly. "Well, I won't take up much of your time."

"I meant to say, I was waiting for a gorgeous gal like yourself to walk in," I replied, daring a wink.

Her response was to toss a crumpled paper on my desk. I tore my gaze away from her lips long enough to smooth it out and take in the blackly scrawled note it bears:

**I'M COMING FOR YOU**

"I was told that you're the best in the business," she said, crossing her arms and indicating her mounting disbelief with her eyebrows. "Perhaps you could try a little detective work to help save my life."

Details leaped out at me from the note – the sickly-sweet odor emanating from the paper (surely a girl like this would never wear perfume that cheap), the polished handwriting, even the quality of the graphite – and I reached for my coat and hat while my brain whirred along at 200MPH.

"Let's go," I said, pulling on my coat while simultaneously trying to put on my hat and also scan my case wall. She followed my gaze and spoke impatiently.

"Aren't you going to ask me any questions?" she asked. I headed for the door, stepping close to her on my way and taking in a deep sniff. Yes, that delicate perfume was much more like it. She backed away hastily, clearly reassessing my mental condition. Well, she wouldn't be the first.

"We'll talk as we walk," I said, courteously holding open the door. "But first, to make sure, I do have the pleasure of addressing Miss Lydia Martin, the second-best lawyer in Beacon Hills? And this note is from none other than Peter Hale, notorious mass murderer, who escaped from Eichen House two days ago, on the third anniversary of the day your brilliant lawyering (is that a word?) put him behind bars."

She hesitated, eyeing me with suddenly narrowed eyes. Then she stepped past me with her chin lifted high and sailed out into the hallway, calling back, "_Second _-best? You should check your sources, Detective Stilinski. We'll take my car."

"Please," I muttered with a grin as I locked the door, "Call me Stiles." Then I raced down the hallway after her.


	2. Chapter 2

"The note was shoved under my office door this morning," I say as I settle into the driver's seat of the car and pull out my compact to check my lipstick. He slams his door, of course, and I wince and snap the mirror shut. "Are you sure there's nothing else you'd like to know?"

He's too busy poking around in the glove box to answer. I idly notice that he needs a haircut, but my impatience – and yes, _fear_, not to stress it too much – is growing with each second.

"Detective?" I prompt as gently as I can. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I like your car," he says, flashing a grin in my direction. Well, the typists and secretaries may melt away at tricks like that, but I merely tick my annoyance level up to Severe. "What is this, a 1932 Rolls?"

"'33," I reply. "Are you capable of focusing, or is this an act you pull on all prospective clients to weed out the weak?"

"Why, are you thinking of running?" he asks as he begins inspecting the upholstery.

"I'm the youngest attorney in this county, not to mention the only woman." My voice is clipped, but I smile slightly at the pride of it. "I have handled more cases in the past year than most junior partners hope to see in a decade. Not to mention that a vicious murderer that I put behind bars has escaped from a mental institution and is sending me threatening notes. Do I seem like the running type?"

"Derek," he says in reply.

I blink, but I seem to be catching on to his leaps of logic. "Derek Hale, Peter's nephew and only surviving relative," I say, but I can't help clutching the steering wheel more tightly. "You think he might know something about his uncle's whereabouts?"

"I know Derek slightly," Stiles says. "He and my buddy Scott were in the same unit in the war. He's a decent enough guy, if a bit surly and intractable. If he knows something that could save your life, I'm sure he'd help."

"Very well, then, detective," I say, turning the key and listening to the car purr to life. "Where can we find Derek Hale?"

"I told you to call me Stiles," he says. "Do you know where the Loft is?"

In reply, I press on the accelerator. Stiles grabs for his hat as we roar away down the street.

Beacon Hills is still a small town, tucked away in the low hills of inland California. There are a few seedy areas in the old downtown, and the seediest street of all is Silver Lane, where The Loft resides. The Loft is a combination lounge, bar, and gambling den, and I have to suppress a twinge of nerves as we pull up beside it.

"If you don't want to come in," Stiles begins, but swallows whatever comes next as I wither him with my best glare. He jumps out of the car and I suffer him to run around and open my door, as it gives him such obvious pleasure.

"The Hales used to be such a good family," I say as I survey the garish neon lights and honky-tonk atmosphere that spills out of the place whenever a drunk or a giggling couple exits. "What would Derek be doing here?"

"Actually, he owns the entire building," Stiles says, smiling broadly as he holds open the door for me.

He practically breathes down my neck as we thread our way through unsteady crowds of bourbon-reeking, cigarette-dragging dregs of humanity. "It won't be easy to see him," Stiles warns. "We'll need someone to give us an in." His face brightens as he cranes his neck to see over the crowd. "Good – B is singing tonight. She loves me."

I feel my eyebrows raising at that remark, but I decide not to comment. He seems to be talking about the girl onstage, whose curves are draped in clinging fabric to the general approval of the audience. She's cooing into a microphone, fluttering her dark eyelashes, and gyrating in a way that makes my eyebrows climb a level higher.

Stiles certainly doesn't seem to mind, and when she finishes her song he waves her over enthusiastically. She struts over and leans on our table, giving me the once-over before speaking to him. "Haven't seen you in here lately, Stiles. Who's the broad?"

I open my mouth to object to the word, but Stiles interjects hastily. "I'm working, B. Is Derek around?"

She nods slowly, dragging on a Lucky Strike and tapping the ashes into our tray. "Sure, but something's rattled him lately. He's been snappish – not at all like himself. You got an idea what's up?"

"You heard about Peter?" Stiles asks.

Her gaze sharpens, and her hand rises to touch her throat, where for the first time I notice a livid scar drawn almost from ear to ear. "I heard," she whispers. "I'll make sure Derek sees you." Her eyes flick over to me. "In private."

Stiles mutters a few words of apology (which I ignore) before she leads him away, leaving me to the press of the crowd. I take the opportunity to flip open my compact and check my lipstick and hair. A girl never knows when she needs to look her best.


	3. Chapter 3

B led me upstairs to a private lounge, where Derek Hale sat in a cloud of cigarette smoke as he brooded down at the crowd gathered below. He greeted me with a short nod and "Stilinski." I sat in the seat across from him, while B slunk over to a nearby couch and watched us from over a fashion magazine.

"You're here about Peter, I take it?" Derek, never one to beat about the bush, asked, leaning forward to extinguish his smoke.

I nodded. "He's after the lawyer who put him behind bars." I pointed out Lydia, visible even in the press with her red hair and prim posture.

"_That_ girl's a lawyer?" Derek sounded impressed in spite of himself.

"The youngest lawyer in the county," I informed him with a grin. "He's already stuffed a threatening note under her door, and I'm sure it won't end there."

"No, Peter never makes idle threats," Derek said, drumming his fingers on the armrest. "I don't know what more I can tell you that I haven't already told the police. Peter and I were close when I was young, but after the fire-" He broke off, jaw clenching. "He was never the same. Neither of us were, but I didn't realize how deranged he had become until they pinned those awful deaths on him. I was glad to see him behind bars, to be honest."

"Can you tell me more about the fire?" I asked. I felt B's eyes on me, but I knew that this was important somehow.

"I wasn't there," Derek replied distantly. "My mother had enrolled me in a prestigious school, which meant that I was gone most of the time."

"But Peter was there," I pressed.

"Yes, Peter . . . he suffered some burns, but he never would tell me how he got out. Everyone else – my father, mother, my sisters and cousins . . ." he stopped short, drawing in a ragged breath.

B rose in a swift movement and came forward to sit next to him, murmuring quietly in his ear and stroking his cheek. He shakily lit another cigarette. "I think you'd better go," she said to me. I nodded in reply and went out the way I had come.

The room was even more crowded than when I had left, clouded with smoke and the scent of perfume. I looked around for Lydia, but she was already running towards me, her eyes wide, hair flying. She clutched at my arm, her head turning and eyes darting as if she were trying to see the entire room at once.

"Oh – uh," I stammered. _Brilliant, Stilinski._

"I _saw_ him," she hissed, twisting around as if she thought someone were right behind her. "I saw Peter. In my compact." She held it out as evidence, her breath coming fast.

"Peter was _in_ your compact?" was the next brilliant thing to emerge from my mouth. Her mouth twisted downward, and her eyebrows came together. At least my idiocy had the desirable effect of distracting her from her terror.

"No, you idiot, in the mirror! He was in the club, behind me! Watching!"

"We need to get you out of here," I said, grabbing her by the arms and towing her after me. She protested, but I managed to get her back into her car and roaring down the road. She was still shaking, but she turned on me after a moment and demanded to know what I had learned.

"Not much," I admitted. "Derek is as taciturn as ever. There's something fishy about that fire, though. I want to look into it."

"Do you have another destination in mind?" she asked, glancing at me.

"There is one other person I'd like to talk to," I said.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is this a joke?" I wonder as we pulled up to the building Stiles had indicated. In spite of the rain and darkness I can still read the sign that reads "Doctor of Veterinary Medicine" over the door.

"This guy knows a lot about just about everything," Stiles assures me. "I know it seems like a long shot, but he'll be able to tell us something. He's my buddy Scott's boss." He pulls the note out of his pocket and taps the side of his nose with it. "Come on, Miss Martin. Trust me."

To my utter chagrin, I find that I do. Or at least, I'm still too shaken to do anything but agree when I'm looking into those warm brown eyes. In an attempt to salvage my dignity, I declare, "Very well, but I'm paying good money for this, and I expect prompt results, Detective Stilinski."

I hear him mutter once again as he tags along after me through the rain to the door, "I said you could call me Stiles." I ignore his words.

The door is opened by a pleasant-looking man in his early forties with dark skin, no hair, and extremely penetrating eyes. "Doctor D!" Stilinski says, reaching out to shake his hand. "Glad we caught you. I need some help with a case."

"Come in out of the rain. Stiles," the doctor says, looking at me. "May I be introduced?"

"Oh. Miss Martin, this is Doctor Alan Deaton. Doctor D, this is Miss Lydia Martin. She's a client, and there's a very dangerous man trying to kill her. I'm trying to catch him first."

Doctor Deaton's eyebrows jump up at this. "Is there a reason she's here with you instead of in protective custody?" he inquires. Stiles hems and haws, but I spare him from having to reply.

"I don't intend to sit around waiting to find out if I'll live or die," I say. "I am a lawyer and I know something about investigation. Detective, would you mind getting to the point of our visit?"

Stiles fishes the note out of his suit coat and hands it to Deaton. "This note was under her door this morning. Can you tell me anything about it that might help us?"

Deaton takes the note and reads with a carefully neutral expression. "Peter Hale, I take it?" he says. He fixes me with his gaze. "What on earth did you do to offend such a dangerous man?"

I straighten my back; of this, at least, I can take some pride. "I put him behind bars," I say.

I can't tell whether Deaton is impressed by this or not – all he does is nod slightly, then beckons us into an adjoining room. It appears to serve as an operating room and a laboratory, lined with shelves and with mysterious equipment on the counters.

Stiles jerks his head towards the other room. "Doctor D, I'd like to use your phone to make a quick phone call, if that's all right."

Deaton nods, and Stiles leaves us alone. I sit in silence, watching as the doctor's clever fingers make short work of analyzing the note. He sniffs it, licks it, even tears off a small corner and chews it thoughtfully. Then he takes off more pieces and drops them into different liquids, squinting at the results in the light. He burns one and sniffs the smoke. He takes a swipe of the pencil onto a cotton swab and analyzes it under a microscope.

I watch in vague interest, but the image of Peter looming up behind me is still so vivid that I am mostly engaged in not jumping at every shadow in the quiet clinic.

"It's all right to be afraid," Deaton says, so softly that it takes me a moment to realize that he was addressing me.

"I'm not afraid," I scoff. "I'm the brightest up-and-coming lawyer in California. Firms from L.A. and San Francisco have been fighting over me since I passed my bar exam. I've won more cases in the past five years than most lawyers see in ten."

"Firms in L.A. and San Francisco?" Deaton sounds intrigued. "And yet you're still in Beacon Hills?"

I shrug, trying to pass it off as casual. "My mother lives here. She'd be heartbroken if I moved too far."

"I see." Deaton glances at my hands and says, "Would you mind telling me what's happened that's got you so rattled? It's more than just a note, I can tell."

I realize I have my handkerchief out of my reticule and that I've been fiddling with it in my lap until it's almost torn to bits. "Oh," I gasp. "How – how silly of me. I didn't notice."

"You may not realize this, but there's no law that says you have to face all your problems on your own," he says gently, moving the handkerchief away and taking my hands in his. The warmth and strength of his grip serves as a reminder of just how cold and fragile I felt. "Also, Stiles Stilinski is a tenacious young pit bull, and he won't let anyone harm you." He considers for a moment. "Well, more of a whippet. But he's one of the good ones."


	5. Chapter 5

I made two phone calls, one considerably longer than the other. In fact, by the time the second phone call was finished, the first was already bearing fruit. I opened the door at a sharp rap, and Scott McCall stepped into the clinic, shaking rain off his cap and out of his dark hair.

"Are you going to tell me now what's so urgent I have to leave my mom in the middle of dinner and tear over to work?" he asked grumpily.

I led him over to the lab door and said, "See that girl over there?" Lydia Martin was sitting perfectly upright on a stool, her eyes on Doctor D as he performed his mysterious experiments. Her hair fell like a crimson waterfall over her back, and the light pored over her exquisite features like a caress.

"Yeah, what about her? Is that the lawyer you were talking about?" Scott asked, craning his neck around to stare.

"Don't look!" I hissed, grabbing his face and turning it back towards me. His eyebrows raised slightly, and he stifled a grin. "I don't want her to know we're talking about her."

"I think she knows that already, Stiles," Scott observed dryly. "If she put Peter in prison, she's smart enough to figure out that you're sweet on her."

"Maybe," I growled. "But I don't need you scaring her off. The point is, there's something weird about this case. Derek didn't say much -" a look from Scott made me amend, "Less than usual, even. I think something big is happening. I called you because I could use a wingman."

Scott peeked another look past the door. "I'll say. That girl looks even more out of your league than your usual type." He ducked my fist, and the resulting scuffle caught Doctor D's attention.

"Is that my assistant out there with you, Stiles?" he called. "Come in here, both of you. I think I've found something."

I followed Scott into the lab and we sat, silent in anticipation.

"First of all," Doctor D said, "this is pretty ordinary paper, the kind that you'd pick up at the corner store. I'm sure Peter did just that."

"But he's a wanted man," Scott objected. "How could he just walk into a store and buy paper?"

"Excellent point," Deaton said. "Peter must have gone to ground, but somehow this paper was not only bought, but the note was also shoved under Miss Martin's door."

"Could he have an accomplice?" I asked.

"It's not only possible, but probable," Doctor D responds. "Unless Peter has taken to wearing cheap perfume while incarcerated – a possibility I am unwilling to discard, but it is unlikely – than someone else must have delivered it."

"Who would work with a man like Peter?" Lydia wondered.

"Well, I've been thinking about that too," Deaton said. "Certainly, there is a certain level of petty criminal who would jump at the chance to work at his caliber of crime."

"Any leads on where we might find this accomplice?" I asked.

"Well, that's where my chemical analysis comes in," Doctor D said, smiling modestly. "I found traces of mercury on the surface of the paper. As you know, that's only found at the gold-refining factory, just outside of town."

"Let's go," Lydia said, jumping to her feet.

"Whoa there, young lady," Deaton said. "I think you'd be safer if you stayed here."

Lydia turned her stern frown on him, and I was interested to note that even Doctor D quailed under that stare. "I'll go crazy if I have to sit around doing nothing," she said. "And my car will fit all of us. Are you coming, or not?"

We all came, trailing in her wake as she strode purposefully out of the clinic. The rain had stopped while we were inside, but the pavement shone in the light of streetlamps. Her car gleamed, and she smiled briefly at me as I opened her door for her. I was heading back to the passenger seat when Deaton's warning voice stopped me.

"Wait! Don't touch that ignition!" he said. He pulled open the hood and peered inside, then surfaced with a grim expression.

At the same moment, Lydia emerged from the car, pale and shaking, with another note in her hand. "It – it was on the dash," she said, handing it to me. It said:

**Are you ready to meet your maker?**

It had the merit of being succinct, at least.

"There's a bomb in your engine," Deaton said, his usually calm face a mask of emotion. "If you had started the engine, we all would have been blown to kingdom come."

"We need to get the police in on this," Scott said. "And find someplace where Miss Martin will be safe for a while."

"Do you have somewhere you could lay low?" I asked her. "Not your apartment. Somewhere else."

"I have a friend – Allison," she said, mumbling in her terror. Her eyes were fixed on the note, as if she was still reading it. "She would take me in."

"But don't go alone. The sheriff will want to see your car, as evidence. Can you take her, Scott?" Scott nodded and headed down the road to where he was parked, and I turned her gently by the shoulders to face me. "You're going to be all right, Miss Martin, I promise. Listen to me, I'm going to make sure nothing happens to you. Do you hear me?"

She nodded slowly, her eyes shifting until they meet mine, and after a breathless moment where all I knew was that I was literally holding this beautiful creature and she was staring into my eyes, we were interrupted by the roar of an engine.

"Oh great," I muttered, hanging my head, not even needing to look as Scott pulled up beside us on his grease-splattered Scout 500 motorcycle with a crooked grin on his face.

"You're pulling my leg, right?" Lydia said.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, sheer necessity (and the thought of seeing Allison) gets me on the motorcycle behind Scott McCall (Stiles assured me at least seventeen times that he is an excellent driver) and we roar away down the road.

I turn my head to look at Stiles as we leave, and am surprised by the pit in my stomach as I watch him watch us go. I've only known the man for one evening, and already I feel less secure without him there. We round a corner, and he vanishes from view, so I turn my gaze resolutely forward and set my mind to the task at hand.

Surviving the night. It's not such a difficult thing, when you think about it. Usually life is a mess of responsibilities – clients and dry cleaning bills and corporate sexism and bunions. Tonight, I have only one thing to worry about, and that's my life.

I remember the Peter Hale case quite clearly as McCall drives me towards Allison's apartment. He was a charming, single-minded, vindictive killer. He had blue eyes, bulging muscles, and a smile that could make a girl's knees weak at a hundred yards. Well, he had made some girls's knees weak enough for him to abduct them and slit their throats, then stuff them into dumpsters. I wasn't the weak-kneed type, and never had been, but the sight of his grinning face behind me in the mirror had made every part of me start quivering like jelly.

Allison lives in an upscale part of town – her parents have money – and she opens the door after the second ring. Her dimpled smile comes out when she sees me, and part of it flashes on McCall, who obviously isn't prepared for such an event. He whips off his cap and favors her with such a calf-eyed look that I would have served him up roasted, with apples. Allison, of course, invites him in for coffee.

The whole story comes out over a cup and a half of joe, and the jitters begin setting in like crazy. I stand and begin to pace, and Scott takes the opportunity to tell Allison that he had given Stiles his faithful promise that he wouldn't let me out of his sight so he'd need to stay, yada yada yada. If Stiles had actually extracted that promise, it had been well out of my hearing. He then proceeds to ask Allison in melting tones for her life story, and I go out on the balcony for a cigarette.

My hands are shaking like leaves in an autumn breeze, and it takes me four tries to get the thing lit. I inhale and let the smoke out slowly, trying to collect my thoughts. I had a moment of terror this morning, when I found the first note under my door, but it had quickly been replaced by a determination to find the perpetrator. I had thought myself very brave and calm, until I had seen Peter's face in the mirror, leering from behind. Then, all my bravery had scattered like pearls from a string - and there's no sign that it's returning to me. By the time I have picked up the pieces, painfully, haltingly, one by one, something else happens to disperse them anew.

But now, with Allison and Scott's cheerful voices chatting in a muted fashion behind the door, I toy with my smoke and try to think. I feel safe, here, on Allison's balcony. I really pity the mass murderer who chooses to mess with Allison.

My thoughts turn to something that's been niggling at me, which I have been too terrified to explore. A car bomb really isn't Peter's style – he had told the police, in a chilling interview that I had witnessed, that he liked to feel the blood run out over his hands. And the notes were so crude – it's just so unlike the refined, worldly man I had gladly helped incarcerate. Something is definitely wrong here, and it's making me nervous.

"You know, smoking isn't good for you," a soft voice says from the darkness on the other side of the balcony. Then hands clamp over my face, and sticky sweetness fill my nostrils. The world wavers, then goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

The sheriff showed up only a few minutes after Scott left with Lydia on his motorcycle, which was a welcome distraction from the sight of her stiff, worried face as they zoomed away down the street. She didn't seem like a girl to be easily rattled, so this guy must have _really _shook her.

"Should have known you be mixed up in a mess this big," Sheriff Stilinski observed, peeking under the hood of the Rolls and then straightening to survey my face.

I should explain; Beacon Hills is a small town. It's hard to get away from anything here, much less your dad. Especially when you've basically known you want to follow in his footsteps since before you could walk.

"How did you even get involved in the Hales escape?" Dad wanted to know, glaring around at the deputies who were combing the car and the surrounding area. I opened my mouth and he held up a hand to forestall me. "Let me guess – there's a girl in this somehow, right?"

"It's not like last time, dad!" I object, wincing. Malia had definitely been a mistake, and it was typical of the man to bring up old wounds like that. "This is a client. Lydia Martin, the lawyer who helped put him behind bars – he sent her a note, threatening her life. She came to me for help."

He folded his arms and stared me down. "Is she pretty?" he asked.

I sighed loudly. "Gorgeous. Can we focus?"

Dad rolled his eyes expressively. "What do you know so far?"

"Here are the two notes," I said, producing them. "And of course, there are his previous victims. Do you have any idea how that could help us find him?"

"Well," Dad scratched his head. "Other than it doesn't make any sense? This is nothing like his other murders. He would stalk the girls, yes, gather information about them, but he always drugged them and took them to his hideaway to kill them. Then he'd dump the bodies."

"Where's his hideaway?" I asked, but he shook his head.

"We never found it. We suspected that it was in the woods, but we combed it for days with no luck. There was enough evidence for a conviction in the end, anyway."

I shook my head and began to pace, which I have always found helps me think. "We're missing something here," I said. "Something important. The profile doesn't fit, and you always say that's a red flag."

He nodded. "But bear in mind that Hale is a deranged maniac," he cautioned.

"No – not quite. There was always method to his madness. Did you bring the files on the other victims like I asked?" I said, holding out my hand.

He sighed and fetched a thick sheaf of files, and I spread them out on the hood of the Rolls. Photographs of each of the victims stared up at me – girls with wide smiles and curling hair, girls with rouged cheeks and alluring eyes. One of the names jumps out at me.

"Laura Hale," I say, picking up the file. "What, his own niece?"

"Yeah," Dad said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. I eye him sideways, noting his greying hair and dark-bagged eyes. "That one was early on – we didn't know it was him until his incarceration, but his fingerprints were identified at the scene."

"Have you been sleeping?" I asked abruptly.

My dreams of surprising an answer out of him were dashed. He merely gazed at me and answered mildly, "Have you?"

"There has to be something else going on here," I said in reply. "Can I borrow your squad car? I have to get to the gold-refining factory."


	8. Chapter 8

When I wake up, it is to the confused notion that I am late for a big trial. That happened once (I got stuck behind a four-car pileup on Main Street) and for the rest of the day the defending attorney had slyly insinuated at every opportunity that my makeup routine was more important to me than being on time for court. I crushed him, of course, but after that I made a special effort never to be late again.

My makeup never suffered, however. I did have priorities.

With this thought in mind, I tried to reach for my compact and jump to my feet simultaneously, only to find that I couldn't move. This confused me so much that my brain began to jump like needle stuck in a groove.

_Late . . . late . . . I'm going to be late . . ._

"Good evening, Lydia." The voice, so uncomfortably familiar, had the effect of rousing me from my stupor, although my brain continued to stutter like a car on its last drops of gas. Peter Hale stepped from the shadows, smiling that crooked smile that had entrapped so many innocent girls. "May I call you Lydia?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

I raise my chin and try to gather my wits. "You certainly may not," I say in as freezing a tone as I can manage, as if he were some half-wit teenager trying to take liberties on the first date.

Peter chuckles, and all my hastily-assembled courage melts like hoarfrost before the sun. "That's my girl," he says.

"What are you going to do to me?" I ask, cursing the tremble in my voice as I test the strength of the ropes binding me. They're tight, wrapped around my waist as well as securing my hands to a chair. I twist my hands, but the bonds are far too tight. I can see little of the room, apart from the packed dirt floor and roots dangling from the ceiling. The only light is a single bare bulb, hanging down over my head. It feels like a spotlight, and I am on the spot.

"Have you already forgotten, Lydia?" he asks, pacing in the darkness. "Surely your keen mind can recollect the details. You certainly took your time going over them in the courtroom."

Photographs file across my mind's eye, gory enough in their details even in black-and-white. The contusions, the burns, the gashes. And finally, the coup de grâce, the slash across the throat with a thin blade.

"You'll never get away with this," I say in as strong a voice as I can muster. "They'll catch you and put you behind bars again."

Peter scoffs, and I jump as he comes up from behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Who, Stilinski and son? They couldn't detect their way out of a cardboard box. And even if they do find this place, the only thing they'll be getting is your mutilated corpse." He steps back, into the darkness again.

I swallow hard, forcing down a sob and some shameful pleading. "I take it we're in your secret hideout?" I say. "Where is it, out of curiosity?"

"That's right, your men in blue never did manage to find it!" I hear his footsteps off to the left. "That must have rankled. I imagine it kept you up at nights."

_Got to keep him talking,_ I think. "We knew it had to be near the old house," I say. "Probably an old root cellar or a bolt hole that hadn't been used in years."

His voice is amused. "Is that right? Very interesting."

"What does surprise me, though, is that you've managed to keep your hands off the young girls in town," I say in a mock thoughtful tone. "That's a level of control I never thought possible from you. In your heyday it was – what? Four a week? People were afraid to step out their doors. Now you're harassing one girl, and what's with the notes? Are we in second grade again?"

He chuckles, coming out of the shadows to regard me. "I had some counseling in prison," he says, "and they helped me come to terms with some of my demons. I don't even want to kill young girls anymore."

"So why kill me?" I ask.

"Well. You see, it's not just me that wants you dead." He shrugs. "I'd have done it for the pleasure, but why do something for free when someone will pay you for it?"

My blood, as the expression goes, began to run chill. "What are you talking about?" I whisper.

He leans close to my ear and whispers, "You should really be more careful about the cases you investigate, Lydia. You've made some rather dangerous enemies."


	9. Chapter 9

The gold refinery was a collection of ugly brick and concrete towers squatting under the moon, but not even moonlight could improve its looks. I parked the squad car across the street and headed through the shadows to an access door in the back.

The door was locked, but I had it open in a minute (twenty-three seconds is my all-time record for lock-picking) and then I was inside. The refinery had been abandoned late in the last century due in part to the riskiness of its methods and partly because the local mine had petered out. But it soon became obvious that it was not quite empty. I heard voices, and metallic clanging, and I snuck towards the source of the sound.

I found a large room full of men, and not a few women, milling around what appeared to be large printing presses and stacks of paper. My jaw dropped. Dad had been worried lately because there had been a large amount of counterfeit bills discovered in Beacon Hills and the surrounding counties, but nobody had even come close to uncovering the source of the forgeries. It looked as if Lydia – and myself, by extension – had gotten mixed up with something bigger than we had thought.

A finger tapped me on my shoulder, and I turned warily to find myself surrounded by burly thugs in caps and woolen sweaters.

"You lost, chump?" the biggest one growled.

In my dreams and aspirations, I am many things, among them a world-class brawler. Real life, however, holds many depressing realities. They knocked me almost senseless in about three seconds flat, and I found myself cowering on the floor nursing a fat lip and what promised to be a broken rib.

"What's all the ruckus?" a feminine voice echoed from in front of me.

"Trespasser, ma'am," the goon on my left replied.

"Well, don't dawdle," came the curt reply. "Bring him here so I can meet him."

They hauled me to my feet, ignored my gasps of pain (it was definitely broken), and frog-marched me to a large room that must once have been the furnace. There was plenty of activity here, although it did not – to my admittedly untrained eye – look much like gold-refining. Here, the bills were being sorted into bags and loaded into vans labeled **BEACON HILLS MUNICIPAL BANK**.

A woman was standing on a raised platform, watching the work. When the thugs threw me at her feet, I raised my head to look at her. She had long blonde hair, a razor-sharp smile, and cold hazel eyes. I'd seen her before, of course, on posters in my dad's office. No one knew her true name, but I had her alias engraved into my memory.

"Aunt Kate," I said.

She nods. "Sharp, very sharp. Did anyone get a name out of him before he got roughed up?"

"It's Stilinski," I said. "Private eye."

"Oh, like that bumbling sheriff! You must be his idiot son that chases after lost kittens every day." She clapped, slowly. "Good for you, you've made it farther than your daddy ever did. Too bad this is as far as you'll get. And I hope you said goodbye to pops already, because he'll never even know what happened to you."

I scrambled to my knees, ignoring the stabbing pain in my side. "Threats aren't going to work with me," I said. "You'd better go stop those presses, because the more you print, the longer your sentence will be, I guarantee it."

Her eyes widened, then crinkled at the edges. "I like a man with guts," she said in a low purr, bending slowly to put her face close to mine. "I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to walk away from this."

I shook my head. "Sorry, you're just not my type."

She rose, planted her feet, cocked her head to observe me thoughtfully. "You are an interesting specimen," she said. "What makes you think that you can just barge in here and start ordering me around?"

"I've got men all around the building," I said with all the bravado I could muster. "The sheriff has been looking for the head of this crime ring for years, and we've finally found it."

She regarded me for another moment, a smile creeping across her face that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. "Liar," she said pleasantly. "It's a pity you're so incorruptible, though. You're not bad to look at, and I could use that kind of chutzpah. As it is – unfortunately . . ." She gestured, and hands grabbed me from behind, forcing me to my knees. "Not here, boys," she said. "There's enough evidence here that even the police could trace something to us. Take him to Hale and let the mad wolf tear his throat out."

My heart began hammering. "Hale?" I said. "So you are working with him, then."

"Well, I did spring him out of jail and promise him exorbitant sums of money to get rid of a nosey lawyer for me. She might already be out of the way, I don't know – he sent word that he'd gotten her more than an hour ago."

The hammering stopped, and the floor seemed to fall away from under me. "Lydia?" I gasped out of a suddenly dry mouth.

"Oh." She smiled again as she took in my expression. "You know her? Oh, dear. You have a crush! Well, at least you can die together. Hale may be an animal, but he knows what he's doing." She gestured again, and blows fell on my head, stunning me and setting the ground to reeling. As the goons dragged me off, I heard her voice, echoing mockingly. "He'll kill her slow, Stilinski. He'll make it nice and slow. I'm glad you can be there to comfort her."

Then blackness took me.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter advances towards me with a heavy steel blade. I tentatively identify it as a skinning knife, and my mind spirals further down that horrific path with each step he takes.

"Three years," he says softly.

" . . . What?" I gasp, emerging from a particularly vivid image of a flayed deer.

He is close to me now, and the immediacy of his hands – and the knife they hold – is almost enough to send my mind scurrying for the hills again. "Three years in that zoo they call a rest home," he whispers, laying the knife on my sternum. I jump at the sudden cold.

"You were a monster," I whisper. "You know I had to stop you – it was my duty."

"Three years, Lydia," he snarls, drawing the edge of the knife across my skin. "Years of confinement and oppression. The treatments they used on me – they claimed they were just trying to help, but their methods were barbarous. And you put me there, so I'm going to take every inch of it out of _your hide._" The knife bites down, and I can't help the scream that erupts from my lips. Blood runs warm down my skin, soaking into my blouse.

_My mom will kill me for staining this shirt_, I think.

He takes the knife away and regards me with a smile that is so eager and friendly that I almost smile back.

There is a loud banging from behind me, and both Peter and I jerk. He sighs resignedly and vanishes. I hear a metallic rattling, then a squeaking of hinges.

"What is it now?" I hear Peter say.

Another voice, gruff and male, answers him. "She's got another one for you."

"It's not my problem," Peter replies sharply.

"Then _make_ it your problem," the voice suggests. After a moment of silence, footsteps approach from across the dirt floor. I crane my neck to look, and see two men in laborer's clothing coming toward me, Peter following with a thundercloud swirling across his face.

The two men were dragging another one between them, a bundle of torn cloth and dirt-streaked skin, dark hair dangling. "She wants you to take care of this one, too. He knows too much." They toss him on the floor, and I stifle a gasp as I glimpse Stiles' features under a coat of grime.

Peter emerges from the darkness, a scowl on his face. "Isn't there anyone else in our generous benefactress' employ who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty?" he sighs.

The first goon throws him a dirty look. "Look, you're getting paid for this, and she doesn't care how you do it. Just make a mess and make sure they're not around to sing tomorrow."

Peter sighs heavily, but he fetches another chair from the shadows and then bends to drag Stiles to his feet and dump him in the seat. When he disappears for more rope, I begin to speak desperately.

"Detective Stilinski! Stiles!" I hiss at him.

His hands twitch, and he raises his head to meet my gaze. "Hey, you called me Stiles," he says with a bleary smile.

"This is no time for flirting," I whisper.

"It's always the time for flirting," he replies, still grinning weakly. "Don't worry, Miss Martin, everything's going to be fine."

I am not particularly reassured. "Does someone know where you are?" I ask. "And what did that guy mean? Who's the benefactress?"

His lips tighten, and I glance away to find myself face-to-face with Peter Hale, who bares his teeth in a smile.

"Welcome, Detective," he says as he knots Stiles' wrists to the chair. "I must say, I'm surprised you made it this far. I would have assumed she'd kill you outright."

He shrugs. "Natural charm," he says, wincing as Peter tightens his bonds. "So you've dropped the freelance work and switched to paid assassination?" he says to Peter, smiling in a friendly fashion.

"I don't answer to anybody," Peter snaps. "We both wanted a job done, and she agreed to give me funds so that I can disappear."

I glare at Stiles. "_Who_ is _SHE_?" I say.

He keeps his gaze on Peter, but his words are addressed to me. "Have you been investigating the counterfeiting ring in the area?" he asks.

"Not directly," I say. "But I have some clients who were deeply involved, and I was doing some research for them."

He looks at me then. "Aunt Kate, the crime lord," he says. "She's behind all of it – Peter's escape, the fake money, the notes, Peter coming after you."

Everything swims into focus then, and my stomach lurches as if I had missed a step in the dark. "The Aconitum case," I whisper. I look up at Peter, triumphant in spite of my terror. "I knew I was close to something," I say. "I confess I didn't realize how big, but I was digging deeper every day."

He leans close, leaning his hands on the armrests of my chair, and we are almost nose-to-nose in spite of my attempts to lean away. "Don't you know what happens to nosy lawyers, Lydia?" he asks quietly.

I swallow hard and shake my head.

He steps back, into the darkness. "You're about to find out," he says. And almost without warning he lashes into the light with a revolver in his hand, catching me high on the cheek with the heavy butt. My head snaps backward and light explodes across my vision. I hear Stiles cry out my name. Then, darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

Her red (no – strawberry-blonde) hair fell over her face, mixing with the crimson blood now streaming from her chest and face. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her eyelids fluttered closed.

"Lydia!" I yelled, straining futilely against my bonds. "Leave her alone!" I shrieked at Peter.

"Your turn will come," he advised me. "I intend to take my time with her – but don't worry, I'll let you watch. And I'll even make it quick for you, provided you continue to entertain me as much as you're doing right now." His grin was vicious, wolflike, and entirely merciless. "We can't wait for her to wake up, though," he said. "I don't really have all night." He bent to pick up a bucket on the floor, lowering his knife.

It was then that the door behind us crashed open in a hail of splinters and dust. A tall, slim figure stepped inside, brandishing a truly wicked gun. Another form followed, this one with a heavy revolver.

Peter squinted in disbelief. "Who on earth are you?"

"Hi, you must be Peter," the one with the revolver said. "I'm Scott McCall."

"Allison Argent," the brunette identified herself, training her Tommy gun on Peter's midsection. "I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I were you. Scott, help them," she said with a jerk of her head.

"Are you two all right?" Scott asked, holstering his revolver and pulling a penknife out of his pocket.

"Thanks for coming," I said. "Would you help me out? Ly – Miss Martin's hurt."

Scott strode over to us and cut my bonds with a few quick saws. I flex my fingers to wake them up as I kneel in front of Lydia, touching her face gently and wincing at the size of the welt on her cheek.

"She's out cold," I mutter. "What took you so long?"

"A simple thank-you would suffice," Allison replied. "Is she ok?"

"I think she needs to get to a hospital," I said, bending to pick up Lydia. "You guys have wonderful timing. Right in the nick of time, amazing. My dad's on his way, too, but it'll take him longer to get here. He had another stop to make first."

She was heavier than she looked, and Scott could only watch me stumbling around for a few moments before he gently but firmly took her away from me. Allison prodded Peter forward with the barrel of the gun, a little more roughly than strictly necessary.

"How did you find this place?" Peter asked quietly, walking where directed without fuss, his hands raised.

"It wasn't us that found it," Scott said, ducking his head to get under the low doorframe. Outside, the moonlight was blazing down on the restless woods, and glinting off a shiny car parked nearby. Leaning on the hood of the car was Derek, his face as stern and implacable as always.

Allison nodded at him. "He's been avoiding the old home for all these years, but he agreed to help when Scott and I asked."

Peter's face soured when he saw Derek. "Ah, yes. My loving nephew. I should have known."

"Can I just shoot him?" Allison wanted to know. The thought was tempting, but Scott met my eyes and shook his head firmly. Lydia's head lolled by his elbow, her face pale in the moonlight.

"Where is dad?" I muttered into the cold night air.

At that moment, we heard sirens wailing through the trees, and red-and-blue lights flash. Derek nodded at us and climbed into his car, starting the engine and driving away past us. I saw B looking at me through the windshield from the passenger seat, her hand resting gently on Derek's shoulder. Then they were gone into the dark woods, and as I turned to follow their progress, I saw the dark skeleton outline of the burned-out remains of the old Hale house standing starkly out against the brilliant moon.

A few minutes later, we were all surrounded by cop cars and busy deputies. My dad jumped out of his seat, yelling orders, and strode over to me, his lips pressing together as he took in my bruised cheek and slumped posture.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

"Yes, Dad," I rolled my eyes. "I'm not three anymore. Lydia – I mean, Miss Martin – is badly cut up, would you have her sent to the hospital?"

Dad's eyes wander over the odd assortment of people who are with me, halting briefly at Allison and her Tommy gun, and I read the thought cross his mind – _I really want to ask, but I think I'd rather not know._

Allison reads his confusion and salutes sardonically, hefting the gun. "My dad likes to hunt," she says by way of explanation. "He taught me a long time ago."


	12. Chapter 12

I wake to the smell of antiseptic and the feeling of dull pain pounding away at my skull. My fingers twitch spasmodically, my brain caught between wanting my compact so I can check my hair and wanting to tear at the terrible itch on my cheek.

My eyes blink open and my gaze wanders around the room. Hospital, obviously, of the sterile-green variety, with questionably-patterned sheets and plastic jugs of water. Someone is sprawled in the chair beside the door, and it takes a few moments for my sluggish mental processes to recognize it as one Detective Stiles Stilinski, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, drooling onto the armrest. I regard him for a moment in blank astonishment, then I move on in the desperate hope that the rest of the room will make more sense.

Ah, and it does they do. I am quite gratified by the garden of flowers and cards that surrounds me. Tokens, no doubt, from my many colleagues and friends. They must have heard of my terrifying ordeal and arrived in droves to support me, only to be turned away by a stern nurse – in my imagination, named Gertrude – who shushed them firmly and sent them packing. "She's too delicate," Gertrude must have said (she had flashing dark eyes) as she made them tiptoe so as not to disturb my rest.

I look again at the chair by the door. He is still there, snoring in an indelicate fashion, and in no way does he belong in my fantasy. Gertrude would have taken one look at his big, clumsy paws and excitable grin and barred him from my door without hesitation.

Suddenly, I want my mother, and a lump grows in my throat. I sit up slowly, meaning to call out for Gertrude, but by some instinct he wakes from his slumber. He jerks to his feet before his eyes are fully open and stares around the room. He sees me looking back at him and we stare at each other for a handful of heartbeats.

"Are you ok?" he asks.

Something about the simple query tugs even further at the sore spot inside me that was already niggling like a loose tooth. I break away from his gaze and begin picking at the bedspread. "Is – is my mother here?"

He gestures. "We're taking turns. I sent her home to sleep. She wanted to be here but . . ."

I wonder what my mother made of him, and can't help the faint grin that tugs at my mouth. "I'm surprised she agreed to that," I say.

"It wasn't easy," he shrugs. "But you've been in here for two days now. And I had some help to convince her. Medical help."

"Gertrude?" I venture.

He settles onto the end of my bed. "No – Scott's mom, Melissa. She's your nurse. She threatened to give your mom a sedative." He grins at the memory.

"Did anyone come to see me?" I ask. My mind briefly goes to my old boyfriend, Jackson, but I dismiss the thought. Even if he had heard, he was halfway across the world, living the trust fund dream in London.

He shakes his head. "No visitors. Melissa can be quite stern, when she needs to be. Lots of gifts, though." He scratches his head, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"Who are these from?" I ask, pointing at a showy bouquet on my bedside table.

He fidgets. "Me."

"And those?" A box of chocolates at the foot of the bed.

"Well – me again. I thought you might be hungry when you woke up."

The next three – a vase of pink roses, a delicate silver watch, and an adorable posy of daisies – also turn out to be from him. I sink back into my pillow, exhausted.

"To be honest," he fumbles, "I haven't had much to do the past few days but go to the gift shop. Melissa finally said I couldn't put anything more in this room. That one's from Allison though." He indicates an arrangement almost invisible on the table.

"You could have gone home," I say. "Why didn't you?"

He meets my gaze in his direct way, and I wonder how it is that he has more courage in his pinky finger than I seem to possess in my entire body. "I promised I would protect you," he said. "I was just keeping my promise."

"Am I still in danger?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

"Not really – but it's hard to say for sure. My dad – the sheriff – arrested more than half of Kate's gang yesterday," he told me. "She was nowhere to be found, naturally, but at least now we know who we're looking for."

"It's a miracle we're still alive to talk about it," I say. "But I can't seem to remember how we're even alive and in this hospital. Would you mind helping me fill in some gaps?"

"Sure, but it's kind of complicated. See, my old girlfriend happens to be Peter's daughter and . . ." He frowns suddenly. "Who's Gertrude?"

I can't help but laugh, a sound so loud and unexpectedly wonderful that I continue for almost a minute until I'm gasping and clutching my stomach. He stares at me, grinning in confusion, and I reach out to take his hand.

"I'll tell you later – over dinner," I say. "I insist on paying, though."

"Good," he replies as his fingers tighten over mine. "You really wouldn't believe how much flowers cost."


End file.
